What We Have That's Different
by AdelphaHighbrow
Summary: Tumnus reflects on his favourite part of Lucy's person.


_This humble little piece is dedicated to Shawcross Girl._

_**What We Have That's Different**_

As the youngest queen of Narnia lay on my sitting room rug, my eyes wandered shamelessly to the same location as my mind. Lucy Pevensie was laying on her stomach by my fireplace thumbing through one of my old treasured books that I now consider to be rubbish. With what I can only describe as the lower half of her legs dangling in the air, her dress fell to her knees on the floor. She was wearing "stockings" again only this time I could see where they ended. It looked as if she had rolled them down to just above her knees. I could barely see just an inch of skin before her dress covered her. Aside from the occasional scoff at the authors theories on human nature and their skills in magic, the object of my heartache would slowly rub her legs together. Back and forth. And back and forth. For the longest time I have been noticing things about my queen that a "dear old friend" probably shouldn't. Perhaps I should elaborate.

Lucy Pevensie, The Valiant Queen of Narnia, had grown up. When she won my heart almost a decade ago, I knew I would have to wait a long time for her. Back then she was only my savior. A fairy tale come true at the coldest point in my life. She had come to melt my hardened weathered heart and save my world in every way imaginableI had never seen a human before. When I first saw her I was taken aback by how adorable she was. What I saw then was her sweet little button nose, and her eyes. There's something about the arch in her brow that can show so much emotion. She had the brightest eyes I could ever remember seeing. What added to the doll-like beauty that she epitomized were the freckles sprinkled over the bridge of her nose onto her cheeks. It was easy to worship her then. It wasn't until she started growing that I really began to panic.

Her face almost hadn't changed a bit. She'd lost some of the adorable cushion in her cheeks, giving away to construct a jaw-line that was very womanly. Aside from that almost everything else has changed. I'd never noticed her body before. Of course, not! But how could I not, now? I don't want to be crude and I don't want to be here all night, so I'll skip the bulk of the things that fascinate me about her anatomy. I'll cut straight to my favourite. Her legs.

As I've said before, I've always sort of had a fairy tale passion for humans. I've always been keenly interested in the things we have that are the same and the things we have that are . . ._different_.

My apologies. I was side-tracked again. Just the thought of those smooth, long, graceful, fur-less limbs is enough to make a faun blush. I suppose it might be the mystery of the exotic. I've seen legs before, of course. The dryads, nymphs, sprites, fairy's, and all sorts of other mock creatures have them. But this was different. All of them had been created by Aslan in the image of the sons and daughters of Adam and Eve. Here before me, laying on my sitting room rug was a real life _specimen. _Even if it were another human girl, I don't think I would feel the same way.Seeing _hers_ invoke a feeling in me that I never really knew I had. I don't know when this realization about her dawned on me. By the time I had realized I was in love her, I was already in the middle and beyond hope of redemption.

As I see her shift to scratch an itch on her thigh my breath hitches and my heart skips a beat. Unfortunately, after the short exposure she tossed her skirt to cover her more than it had in the first place. A small price to pay for those three seconds of ecstasy. Suddenly I'm flooded with memories of the past couple of years. Particularly when she took me swimming. It has been one year nine months and twenty-one days since that wonderful day. That day and that day alone I actually spent hours upon hours with Lucy in the most revealing get-up I've ever seen. She noticed my gawking and explained it's what people where she came from wore to swim in. It looked like the sort of breeches that boys wear, only much, much shorter. They cut off where the legs ended and _she_ began. To make things worse for your favourite faun, they were so tight I can't logically explain how she fit into them. Of course, my eyes traveled over her bare shoulders and other, _ahem_, lovely things that I had a better view of. That afternoon we swam and I had the opportunity to touch her while in the water. My hands on her waist, grabbing her shoulders, and playfully tugging on her legs. I still feel weak when I think back on that day. The climax was probably when she (unfortunately) got a cramp in her right leg. She put it upon me to massage it out.

You can't imagine my reaction to her request. How was I to deny it? She is the Queen of Narnia! At least, that's what I told her. She ended up having to beg me. I placed both my hands on her bare thigh, and gently and slowly kneaded it, trying to keep a controlled expression so she couldn't guess the elation that was coursing through me as we stood waist deep in the lake. Imagine my reaction when she winced and pleaded, "harder!" It was barely easier to keep my composure when we had our picnic after the swimming. Sitting across from her on that blanket, her soaking wet body (her white "swimsuit" as she calls it, quite soaked), as she offered me some of her fried chicken.

"_I saved my legs for you, because I know they're your favourite."_

It took me an eternity to figure out that she meant the chicken. But I wonder now, as I watch her rubbing them together back and forth. Should I really be letting myself think these thoughts? She trusts me. She wouldn't be so comfortable dressed the way she does in my home and around me if she didn't trust me. I know what you're thinking! I'm a bad faun. A horrible faun! I can't deny it. But I would never ever do anything to betray her trust. And I plan on telling her how I feel! It wouldn't be right of me to let her go on embracing me in our greetings and partings, kissing my face in moments of mirth, and leaning her head on my shoulder while I play her songs on my flute without letting her know what she's doing to me. Until I can work up the courage, what's wrong with worshipping her from a distance? In the meantime, I'm afraid the slow dance of her stockinged legs by my fireplace is enough to deter me from my story. Oh, just watch them. Back and forth. And back and forth.


End file.
